Moderate Fable

In seasons of doubt, in seasons sceptic of love
Yet here did seven bridegrooms softly come
Each with translucent bone and glistening spittle

To claim the daughter of God, as dual beautiful
With wreath upon her head, with mute hands folded

And a shroud like a golden cloud; she was unseen
But nuance of spheres, but premise of flowering,
And here did seven bridegrooms enter in.

But early death or a sudden anesthesia did strike
Seven bridegrooms in her still rooms, before one
Could consummate with her the act of union entire;

As flower will not think, neither will man flower,
And the sphere will be revealed, but hemispheres

Of part, closed eyes, and white dust in the dried
Mouth of loves divine. So cursed by severance here
Was each bridegroom feeble as a child

Without blood. For these were her widowed stainless
Allegiances, and lilies in the sea
And that profound silence which favors the consumer
Though fish will sleep in the water’s flower anemone.

And in seasons of logic’s coldest, coldest
Continence, her dry tongue blossoming
Not one, not one has ever heard

As meanwhile, moderate fable, how does she seem
Altered, for aged with her are the lovers of God.
And now is her eye congealed, now is her breast

Vacancy for the burrowing birds,
Vacancy for the burrowing bird.